


Freudian Slips

by TwinTwain



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Max doesn't like butterflies, Max is hella gay, mundane utility, occasional OOC Max, pricefield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinTwain/pseuds/TwinTwain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Max Caulfield uses god-like power to save the gay--day. Save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Water, Water, Everywhere

Chloe strips without hesitation, and jumps into the pool. When she comes back up—skin glistening and undergarments clinging—Max wonders why it's suddenly so warm.

"C'mon, Max! Don't you want to get wet?"

"I already am." She replies, still staring.

The silence hangs in the air for several seconds before her brain catches up. When it, does she throws out her hand.

"C'mon, Max! Don't you—"

Without even bothering to undress, she plunges into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this image: http://i.imgur.com/yon4ep3.jpg
> 
> I'd also like to thank Reddit user Plantfieldunite, without whom I would not have this new 'Max makes freudian slips about her attraction to Chloe and has to frequently rewind to avoid embarrassment' headcanon.
> 
> Till next time, LiStrangers!


	2. Practice Makes Perfect

“Whenever and whatever you want to try…for example, I dare you to kiss m—mmph!”

She’s lost count how many times she has rewound this moment. There’s a pounding in her head from the back to back repeats, but it’s the pounding in her heart that concerns her.

Well, and the pounding of Chloe’s. She can feel it pulsing wildly under her fingers…

But then Chloe backs off, as she always does. Her technique must be improving though: her friend has a glazed look in her eye, and the blush on her cheeks contrasts nicely with her hair. She really should take a picture, but something inside of her vehemently objects at the thought. Pictures are meant to be shared, to be seen.

She wants to keep this one all to herself.

“ _Damn_ Max…so much for being little miss innocent. How did you get to be such a good kisser? Practice much?” She’s even panting a little, which sends a bolt of pride shooting through her. It’s followed shortly by a bolt of something _else_ when Chloe bites her lip.

It makes her feel powerful, reckless. Time bending god powers have _nothing_ on this.

“Only on you.” She says absentmindedly.

She only has a moment to register the shock on Chloe’s face before she rewinds. She feels guilty, but Chloe had never said she couldn’t rewind at _all_. Just that she didn’t want her to rewind to take the kiss _back_.

She’s not.

She does keep it light though, like the first time. She’ll tell her, one day.

Or better yet, _show_ her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Till next time LiStrangers!


	3. A Father's Blessing

“So Max, what did you and Chloe get up to last night? I happened to come down for a late night snack and heard some noises from her room. Nothing too taxing, I hope.”

She’s rewound a couple of times while talking to William, but she still has to fight the urge to just sit and _stare_ at him—which is what necessitated rewinds one through four. She’s finally getting the hang of it, she thinks, although her response time is still a little on the slow side.

She smiles. “We just watched a movie.”

“Ah, now that brings back memories. I’d always come down early the next morning to find you two curled up in a collapsed blanket fort. I remember dreading the thought that one day she’d be bringing boys over instead of her best friend…” He says fondly as he smiles into his coffee cup.

She wonders how he would react if he knew that yesterday morning she’d kissed his daughter in another universe.

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been boys you’d have to worry about.” She suggests softly.

He pauses mid-gulp, gives her a sidelong glance. When he lowers his drink, it’s with deliberate slowness.

“If her tastes in that category were similar to her taste in friends, I wouldn’t have had to worry much, I think.” He replies, equally soft. His fingers tap along the side of the cup in a steady rhythm.

“You wouldn’t have minded?” Her voice falters halfway through, betraying her.

“Between you and me, I’ve always had trouble picturing her as a bride…I think given the choice she’d prefer a tux.” He smirks, and then reaches over to ruffle her hair, just like he used to. “ _You_ , on the other hand, would look wonderful in a wedding dress.”

She smiles, but her heart aches painfully.

She knows that in Chloe's fantasies, Rachel is the one wearing a dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in, and I've already abandoned only using the Freudian Slip angle. I've realized it was silly to chain myself to that...while I have plenty more ideas for them, it'll get stale without something else to space them out. So in between I'll just have regular little snippets such as this. Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Till next time, LiStrangers!


	4. The Naked Truth

“I’m _soooo_ sorry, I had no idea that you just got out of the shower and I wanted to show you this really cool picture I took—”

“Max,” Chloe interrupts, tone surprisingly even given her nudity “your nose is bleeding. Like, a lot.”

She brings her hand up, and _wow_ , that is a lot of blood.

“You got anything you want to tell me?”

Abandoning the act, she makes one last slow sweep from head to toe, and then looks her straight in the eye.

“I regret _nothing_.”

And then she rewinds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing to see here, Strangers. Move along to the next chapter.


	5. Jane Doe

"Who is this?"  
  
This is her third time being invited over, which—as everyone knows—is the number that signifies they're past the awkward first stages of friendship. As such, she feels comfortable poking around in Chloe's things while her friend lights up.  
  
That's when she comes across the photograph, nestled in a tin box in the closet. Two girls smile beneath a tree. One is obviously a pre-dyed Chloe, but the freckled face is a mystery.  
  
The blue haired punk takes one look at it, plucks it from her fingers, and flings it across the room. It disappears behind the dresser next to the bed.  
  
"Nobody." She finally replies, eyes set into a hard stare.  
  
Frowning, she walks over to the chipping furniture and gets down on her knees to see if it fell all the way to the floor. There's nothing but dust. Somehow or another it must have managed to get perfectly wedged between the dresser and the wall.  
  
"Don't bother trying to get it, Rachel. That dresser is old, heavy, and bound to give anyone trying to move it a splinter. Besides, it's just a stupid picture. Not worth the effort."  
  
She lets it go, not willing to push. But it bothers her, and she files the picture in the back of her mind for later.  
  
XXXXXXXXXXXX  
  
A week later she knocks on the Price's front door and is let in by Joyce with a smile. Upon entering, a muffled voice rings out from the garage.  
  
"Joyce! Where are the goddamn tweezers?!"  
  
Joyce's smile turns strained.  
  
"Go on up hun. Chloe will be with you in a moment."  
  
She heads upstairs quickly, wanting to avoid the argument she knows will be starting. She’s not exactly sure why Chloe is so willing to butt heads with her mother, or why she insists on calling her by her first name, but they’re not close enough yet to breach that subject. There’s a lot of that with Chloe, she’s begun to realize. It’s somewhat alarming; she can seem so open and simple one second, and then completely closed off and enigmatic the next.

But, truth be told, that’s not the only reason she hurries.

When Chloe joins her six minutes later, Rachel doesn’t ask about the Band-Aids on her hands. She doesn't ask about the tell-tale scratch marks that mar the floorboards around the dresser.

She doesn’t ask about the picture, returned safely to the tin box she’d found it in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one go? And a Rachel POV? There will be more, and unlike most of these standalone chapters they will be connected to each other as a little mini-story. 
> 
> Till next time, Strangers!


	6. Saving Throws

“As soon as you enter the stronghold, you find yourselves surrounded by a group of heavily armed guards. One of them bears the insignia of the king on his chest piece, and is clearly in charge of the rest. He steps forward and raises his sword, only to stop when a voice calls out. A young, handsome man enters the circle, an ornate sword strapped to his side. His eyes scan your party briefly, eventually landing and settling on Maxima.”

“ ‘I sincerely apologize for the unfriendly welcome, my dear.’ He says smoothly. ‘I’m afraid we’re not used to—’  ”

“I jump forward and give him a flying kick in the nuts.” Chloe interrupts, mouth stretched into an evil grin.

Warren blinks. “He’s wearing _armor_.”

“I know. Good thing I paid Ekaterina to give my boots the ‘penetrate’ enchant last time we were in town.” She nods toward Kate, who bites her lip and mouths _I’m sorry_ to Warren when Chloe looks away.

“It’s pierce, Chloe. Not penetrate.” Max pitches in, rolling her eyes. Honestly…

“Why are you even kicking him in the nuts in the first place? For all you know, he’s about to offer to _help_ you!” Warren’s trying his best to keep his cool, but Chloe’s constant derailments are starting to get to him. Max can tell by the frantic way he scribbles into his notes.

She probably should have expected this; Chloe hates being told what to do. Apparently that extends past real life and into role play.

“I think it’s obvious who he _really_ wants to help. It’s only fair to let him know this is a girl’s only adventure.”

“ _Fine._ Roll for hit.”

Chloe rolls her d20, and curses at the result. Warren looks positively ecstatic.

“Eliza’s _completely_ unnecessary flying kick misses, and she lands in an embarrassing heap on the floor. The guards laugh, and—”

“Max! Rewind!” Chloe demands, eyes burning.

“Chloe, that’s a total waste of my powers. I can’t rewind every time you—”

Her eyes turn pleading, and Max sighs.

“I cast Time Regression, and rewind the last thirty seconds.”

Warren’s head is in his hands. He looks like he might cry. Kate pats his back gently, seemingly unsure what to do.

“I should never have let Max play a Time Mage” he groans. “Chloe, one of these sessions you’re going to make a rash mistake and get your character killed. And Max won’t be there to rewind it.”

The statement hits a little _too_ close to home. She can feel the blood drain from her face, and her eyes seek Chloe’s frantically. Behind her back, shaking fists clench the edge of her shirt.

Chloe handles it much better than she does. Her expression, seconds ago smug, is now solemn. Her eyes are steady, sure.

“Max is always there when I need her.“

She says it with complete confidence, like there isn’t even a doubt. Like, once upon a time, Max hadn’t let her die right in front of her.

“And I’ll always be there when she needs me.”

As quickly as it came the tension oozes out of her, with Warren and Kate none the wiser. Chloe keeps their eyes locked for another moment before she sighs and throws her head up toward the ceiling.

“But you’re right. It’s not fair to burden Max with saving my butt. No matter how nice it is, or how many times I offer to let her cop a feel as a reward. Kate, put those maxed out diplomacy skills to use...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in Disney World all next week, so I decided to throw this together quickly before I leave. Apologies if it's not up to my usual standards. On another note, tabletop rpgs are super fun, for anyone who has never tried them. If you have a good group of friends, chances are you'll have a blast.
> 
> Till next time, Strangers!


	7. Good Ending

They’re lying on a hill, side by side. It’s a beautiful day: sunshine, clouds, a cool breeze—it’s almost _too_ perfect. That there can be a day like this after all of the craziness…it feels wrong. Not that they don’t _deserve_ a nice day or two after all the crap they went through—they do—but it makes those hellish days seem so distant. Like maybe they never really happened at all.

Except they definitely did. The torn apart town and indefinite closing of Blackwell prove it. She’s sure that there’s a perfect metaphor buried somewhere in the wreckage that could explain it, but for once she has no desire to start digging for it. She’d much rather relax and enjoy the peace. She only hopes that it lasts.

It doesn’t.

“Hey Max…you ever think about how you want to die?” Chloe asks.

Pictures flash through her mind. Chloe bleeding out on the bathroom floor. Chloe smeared across train tracks. Chloe’s head rocking back, eyes unfocused as a bullet passes through her forehead.

She opens her eyes wide, staring into the sun until the pain is overwhelming—until all she can see is white, inside and out. She can feel her hands shaking. Chloe grabs one in her own and threads their fingers together, runs a thumb along the side of her hand.

“ _Shit._ Sorry, I…I didn’t mean to bring up—I just—” she takes a deep breath, and lets out a nervous laugh “I want you to know. If I died right now, I’d be happy. I never could have said that before. But I can now. Because of you.”

She doesn’t say anything—she can’t find the words. Instead she rolls over onto Chloe and rests her head against her chest. She listens to the steady thumps of heartbeat as Chloe runs a hand through her hair.

If she could choose how she died…

_I want to die before you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, in celebration of the announced release date of episode five! Now to just suffer through a month of agonized waiting.
> 
> Till next time, Strangers!


	8. Pest Control

She blinks as everything comes into focus, the view of a giant hurricane in the midst of destroying a town replaced by the girl’s bathroom. She watches as the butterfly takes flight, flapping along without a care in the world, just like it did the first time.

That is, until it finds itself plucked out of midair by her pinched fingers.

“I’m sorry. Do you have somewhere you need to be?” She asks, tone sugar sweet.

The butterfly naturally doesn’t say a word, but if its frantic attempts to flap its wings are any indication, it’s seen through her completely lackluster attempt at acting.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you go just yet. We’re going to have a _niiiiice_ little talk, right after Nathan and Chloe come in and get spooked by the fire alarm I’ll be setting off. Kay?” She smiles, and the butterfly redoubles its efforts to squirm out of her grip.

A second later Nathan barges in and starts going through his little rant. Max entertains herself in the meantime by using the hand not holding the butterfly to mimic a mouth, and rolls her eyes as she has it sync up with Nathan’s tirade.

Luckily she doesn’t have to wait long before Chloe shows up. Without even bothering to let them get into the conversation she pulls the handle of the alarm, turning to look at the captive insect in her fingers as the two quickly leave.

“Now,” she says as soon as the door shuts “we only have a few moments before time flashes forward and I’m back at the lighthouse. Let’s have a chat. About how you and the universe want to kill Chloe"

The grin that breaks out on her face is absolutely predatory.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Two days after the destruction of Arcadia Bay, the butterfly shows back up. It lands on the steering wheel of Chloe’s truck, flying through the open window while they are stopped at a gas station. Chloe is currently inside, buying more cigarettes.

It seems very pleased with itself. She can almost hear it.

_It is not over. She will die, and you can’t stop it._

Without breaking eye contact, she reaches behind her.

And pulls out a flyswatter.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Its next visit is weeks later. This time, it stays just outside of her reach—perching on the branch of a tree that Chloe has parked near.

How adorable. It’s learning.

“Max, can you hand me the wrench?” Chloe grunts, currently underneath her truck.

“Sure.” She grabs the tool and places it on the ground, sliding it under the truck toward Chloe with her foot.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” She replies, digging through the large purse she’d bought just a couple days ago. After a couple seconds of shifting other things aside, she nods and grabs out a match box.

Without taking her eyes off of the butterfly she moves until she is almost directly underneath the branch it rests on. She then takes out a match and lights it with a quick strike across the box, holding it up toward the branch.  Reaching into her coat, she pulls out a bottle of hairspray and dexterously pops the top off with her thumb.

A moment later Chloe slides out from underneath her truck, rubbing her hands on her jeans. “Hey Max, I think we’re good to—HOLY SHIT THAT TREE IS ON FIRE!”

“Oh no.” Max says blandly.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Six months down the road, under the cover of darkness, the butterfly slips under the door to their hotel room and lands on the dresser situated as far away from the bed as possible. It should be safe—the two are fast asleep, curled up together—but after the flamethrower it’s not taking its eyes off the small one. It flaps its wings twice, pondering what natural disaster to send after the one that cheated death. It momentarily contemplates a volcanic eruption…the small one is certainly dangerous enough to warrant it…

A loud thump sounds off behind it, causing it to turn in surprise.

A large lizard looks down at it, tongue flicking in and out of its mouth rapidly. It looks hungry.

“Good boy, Butternibble” Max sleepily mumbles into Chloe’s chest.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Three years have passed. It has cautiously made its way closer, keeping itself vigilant. After weeks and weeks of prolonged scouting, it has finally decided to get within hearing distance.

“Max, are you sure _that’s_ the hobby you want to pick up? Seems kinda…morbid.”

“Lepidoptery is a fascinating field! I can’t wait to start collecting specimens!”

Maybe it would wait a little longer before trying again. Seventy years would probably be safe...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? After episode five, I'm not feeling very gracious toward butterflies. Max isn't either.
> 
> I'm in the middle of writing a "sacrifice arcadia bay" one-shot, which is much more serious and angsty than I'm used to. As such, I felt the need to write something silly and nonsensical for balance. I'm not done with Freudian Slips yet, either. There's still plenty of things that I'd like to cover.
> 
> Till next time, Strangers.


	9. High Roller

Chloe, ever the brave one, is the first to break the silence.

“How many people do you think...” she breaks off, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

Max doesn't know. Before she left, the population had been somewhere around one thousand two hundred. She has no idea if that number had gone down or up in the five years she's been away. All she knows is that there's been no sign of anyone since they rode through the town. The odds of nobody making it out are astronomically small, but this hadn't been an ordinary storm.

Does it really even matter, in the end? What number of people would be considered an acceptable sacrifice for Chloe's life? Four? Twenty? Seven hundred? When she made her choice, she'd done so accepting the possibility that the two of them would be the only ones left standing. She loved Arcadia, and most of the people in it.

But she loves Chloe more.

So if the universe ever decides to chase its loss—to once again gamble against her with Chloe's life as the prize—there's no limit to the number of lives she'll bet just for the chance to roll the dice. She'll do it without a second thought.

If the universe won't let her be a hero, it can't blame her for playing the villain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! My four year old laptop decided to retire a couple weeks ago, and the new one just arrived today. Luckily I was able to access all my files and documents, so this little work in progress was able to be finished. Enjoy!


	10. Exposure

Victoria's not _supposed_ to be in Blackwell after hours, but being acquaintances with Nathan Prescott has its perks. A simple name drop had dispersed the security guards, one of them even being so kind as to unlock the entrance for her.

It's not as if she's here to do anything criminal, anyway. She just left her camera in Mr. Jefferson's classroom. There's no way in hell that she's going to leave it there overnight; besides how expensive it was, it holds her entry for the “Everyday Heroes” contest. She has no doubt that there are plenty of students jealous enough of her talent (though they have every right to be) to sabotage it if given the chance. She can't allow that to happen, no matter how small the possibility.

If  _anyone_ is going to get some alone time with Mr. Jefferson, it's going to be _her_. By the time she's through with him, he'll never want to take a picture of anyone but her.

She's nearing the room in question when a flash briefly appears in the door's window, throwing lances of light into the hallway. She briefly hesitates, only to hear a voice she recognizes whisper loudly from inside.

“— _keep your voice down. If we get caught...”_

Max Caulfield. Little Miss Selfie Suck-Up herself.

“ _And whose fault would that be?!”_ A second one hisses back. _“You've been trying to get the 'perfect picture' for the last ten minutes! Just finish up already so we can go back to my place! You can take as many photos as you want there!”_

She knows _that_ voice too. Chloe Price may have been kicked out of Blackwell a year ago, but she's still well known by the student body. Normally a punk like her wouldn't be considered worth remembering, but her connection to Rachel Amber had gained her a bit of notoriety—even before the disappearance. Everyone had wanted to be close to Rachel, and the mystery of why she had chosen to stay friends with a burnout like Price had naturally made people curious.

“ _I know, I know. I've almost got the angle right. Just one more—”_

A fury settles over her quickly. If Max so much as _touched_ her camera...

With a scowl that makes most of her peers cower in fear she storms forward, heels clicking loudly against the tiles. A second before she surges through the door she hears a curse.

_It's too late to hide, Maxine_ she thinks as she enters the room and turns her head toward the back of the classroom.

To find Max Caulfield's back. Her _bare_ back. Sans shirt, sans bra. But that's not all. Because behind Max, just barely blocked by her scrawny body, is Chloe Price. Just as naked above the waist but facing forward, currently staring at her with eyes wide open in surprise.

With two quick flashes, the camera set up on a tripod across the room records the moment.

For once, no words present themselves. No catty remarks, no bitchy insults. She's absolutely frozen, with no idea of how to move forward.

Apparently, Max does not have the same issue. With a single fluid motion she swivels her head to look at her over her right shoulder.

“This is _exactly_ what it looks like.” She says with a confidence that—in any other circumstance—might impress her.

With a shake of her head she walks briskly past the two, grabs her camera from the top of her desk, and speeds out of the room with as much grace as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, as an apology for the little break I was forced to take. This was another short that had already been in the works, so it didn't take much to flesh it out and complete it.


	11. Amber Dreams

Rachel appears to her in a dream the night they leave Arcadia behind. She shines so bright that it hurts to look at her, but Chloe can’t stop staring. There’s so much she wants to tell her, so much she wants to say.

“Rachel, I…”

She’s interrupted by a bark in the distance, followed shortly by a raucous laugh. Past Rachel, she can see two dark outlines—one tall, one small—waiting just beyond a curtain of fog.

When she turns her attention back to Rachel, it's to find her with an apologetic expression on her face.

“I’m sorry.” She says.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt.

There’s no fresh wave of betrayal, no anger, no jealousy. All she feels is a very dull ache in her rib-cage, like pressing on a three day old bruise.

“Just can’t help yourself, can you?” She sighs, eyebrow raised. Rachel’s face shifts, turning sheepish. She can’t help the grin that tries to break out on her own face at the sight.

“Jeez, I can't even dream about you without Mister Beans getting in the way. Guess I was just a stand in after all.” She scoffs and crosses her arms, feigning irritation. Just because she doesn’t actually _feel_ as slighted as she’d thought she'd be doesn’t mean Rachel gets a free pass for lying to her.

“I could say the same thing, I think.” Rachel says with a knowing smile. She can see that there’s sadness in it to.

There’s no point in denying it. Rachel had always been gifted at reading people—it was part of what made her so universally likable. She always seemed to know exactly what made everyone tick, how to use that knowledge to ingratiate herself with them. She’d probably known since the beginning, since she'd found a picture of two girls beneath a tree and started asking (with annoying and persistent regularity) who the freckled one was. “I guess…I guess we both used each other.”

“A little.” Rachel admits with a nod. “But I really do care about you Chloe, and I always have. I want you to be happy.”

“I am.” She says, and means it. It feels odd, meaning it. Ever since her dad and Max left she's just barely been able to cross the threshold between existing and actually _living_. Happiness had felt like a mirage that she could see in the distance, but never reach. So she'd stopped trying.

And then, just when she'd given up on it completely, it decided to come to _her._ In the form of a freckled, cute, dorky, gentle, and unnecessarily self-conscious photographer.

Life really is strange, sometimes.

“I'm glad.” Rachel's smile is as bright as the light emanating from her. “Max is...something else.”

“You were my angel, Rachel. But Max...Max is my goddess.” She always had been, whether she'd wanted to admit it or not.

“If you ever start up a cult dedicated to worshiping her, do me a favor and name me as a head priestess posthumously.” Rachel grins, amused.

“Sure, but don't get jealous just because I get to be her mortal lover. That's a step up from head priestess in the hierarchy.”

They both stare at each other, then break out in simultaneous smirks. She's missed this. Part of her wishes she could stay.

But it's a small part, and the rest knows that it has somewhere else to be.

Rachel must know too. With careful tenderness she places her hands on the sides of Chloe's face and pulls her head down while simultaneously raising her own. Even still she must be on the tip pf her toes. Her lips make contact with Chloe's forehead, filling it with warmth and lingering before pulling back slightly. By this point the light is so bright that she has to close her eyes.

“I'll be watching you two.” Rachel whispers into her ear.

“Perv.” She whispers back.

The laughter that fills her ears is heavenly.

When she wakes, the sound of it is still ringing inside of her head. She brings a hand up to her face, wiping away the warm tears before they can streak down onto Max, whose head is resting on her collarbone.

She falls back asleep to the sound of Rachel in her ears, and the feeling of Max in her arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time, when I write something, I feel like I haven't done the idea justice. I'm rarely satisfied with my own work. This chapter is a happy exception...I'm pretty pleased with it, for the most part. One thing I am missing is a good chapter title....
> 
> There's also a shout out to a story that you should all be reading, one which is ten million times better than anything I'll ever put out. Maybe one day I'll be half as talented as its author.
> 
> Till next time!


	12. Selling Price

“So—to sum up points one through one hundred and twenty-seven on my bullet list, as well as the information presented on figures 1a through 13b—when the time comes, you should totally save Chloe.”

The other Max, settled in the second to last booth in the Two Whales Diner, slowly raised her hand.

“Yes? Is there something you need me to go through again? The section on make-out sessions, perhaps?”

“Um, that's okay. The first four times were enough.”

“Well, it's a _really_ important point. But go on. What's on your mind?”

“...where are we?”

She blinked. “Huh. You know, you're the first Max I've met that has actually asked. I didn't when I was here...but, y'know. In your shoes. Before I made my choice. Anyway...that's actually up for debate. I used to think this whole thing was just a super creepy nightmare from the back to back rewinds. But then, a couple months ago, I met someone who changed my mind. Chloe and I happened to run into her when we went to revisit the Arcadia Bay Lighthouse. Nice enough girl, but from what she let slip she has daddy issues that eclipse Chloe's by a mile...I don't know how, but she took one look at me and...and I could just tell she _knew._ Started talking about places that connected other timelines and universes. That's what I've come to believe this place is—a nexus point between all the timelines and universes we created.”

“How did you get here, then?”

“Well, I'm not quite sure myself. I just remember that, right before falling asleep one night, I was feeling really resentful about my experience here. All I'd had shoved down my throat was how I had ruined everyone's life by using my powers and that Chloe didn't really care. At that point I didn't even know I was going to be forced to make a choice, but it's obvious now that this nightmare wants to steer us toward one in particular. I don't know about you, but to me that seems really fucking _unfair_. So, back to the point...I fall asleep, and next thing I know I'm here. Well, once I realized where I was and took care of...uhm...anyway, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity and even the playing field. The powers that be want to tell us what we stand to lose by saving Chloe? Fine. I'll tell us what we stand to _gain_. Among the most important: make-out sessions. There's a reason I went over them four times.”

Her counterpart blinked once slowly, all the while tapping out random beats against the tabletop with her fingertips. After a couple moments, her eyes darted to the binder she'd set beside her in the booth.

“Do I get to keep the photo album?” Other Max asked, cheeks aflame.

She smiled. Ah, the photo album. Her most effective selling point. It was truly her masterpiece as a photographer. How could it not be, considering her subject?

“Wouldn't you rather make your own? Doesn't looking through it give you... _ideas_?” If all Maxes had a muse, it would be Chloe Price. Her hips alone could inspire divine artistic inspiration.

She grinned as the already reddened cheeks of her latest guest darkened, spreading until even her ears were a brilliant scarlet.

“Max!”

Right on cue, Chloe stormed in. She had to fight the instinct to instantly jump her. This wasn't _her_ Chloe, after all.

“Perfect timing!” She chirped. “I'm afraid we'll soon be parting ways, Max. Remember everything I've told you. _Especially_ bullet points three, twenty-seven, forty-two, and ninety-nine.” She silently mouthed 'make-outs' as dramatically as possible. “I'll get out of your hair and let Chloe tell you how she feels. If you ever figure out how to get back here, bring me some of your own pictures for the album!”

With a final wave, she ventured back into the stockroom.

* * *

“Good news, Max! Another successful sale!” She announced cheerfully.

“Mrrnmphn!”

“Oh, do you have something to say? Also, it's time for lunch. Here are some pancakes.” She set the plate down on the cardboard box in front of her doppelganger, and then proceeded to carefully remove the duct tape covering her lips.

“First of all,” Maxine said “It's Maxine. _Never_ Max. Second, you can't keep me tied up back here forever. I _will_ get out eventually, and once I do I'm going to go back out there an—mmmmph.”

With one clean movement she reapplied the tape and took back the plate.

“No pancakes for you until you learn to stop channeling Victoria.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! This chapter has been completed, scrapped, and re-written more times than I'd like to count. I've finally settled on this version, but as always feel like it could be done more justice. If I could draw, I'd make this into a little mini-comic...but I can't, so we'll never be able to enjoy watching Max try and sell other Maxes on choosing Chloe. Truly Tragic.
> 
> Till next time!


	13. Time Scars All Wounds

Usually, being silent in a room full of people is first nature.

Right now it's taking every ounce of control she has to keep from screaming.

“Seriously though, I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and capture you in a moment of desperation.” The tang of blood fills her mouth as she gnaws a bit of inner cheek between her teeth. There's a roaring in her ears that gets louder by the second, almost completely drowning out the rest of the lecture.

Not that it matters. She's heard it all before.

“And any one of you could do that to me. Isn't that too easy? Too obvious?”

Her hands tremble, but her eyes are hard as steel. 

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She watches as his eyes flutter open, pupils dilating as they sluggishly move to and fro.

_This is what Rachel Amber looked like_ a voice hisses inside of her, dark and full of malice. _This is what Kate looked like. This is what_ _ **I**_ _looked like._

Eventually he regains enough cognizance to focus, eyes locking onto her as she squats down in front of him. She can see his momentary confusion, soon replaced by panic when he recognizes his surroundings.

“How does it feel? To be on the other side of things, I mean. For me it's simultaneously cathartic _and_ revolting.” She puts her hands on her knees and stands up, arms stretching toward the ceiling lazily.

He tries to respond, but it's all muffled beyond comprehension by the tightly secured cloth gag. The heavy duty cuffs around his wrists and ankles are probably unnecessary, but she's not taking any chances.

“You took someone from me.” She says, ignoring his fruitless attempts to speak and walking over to the table in front of the couch. “Well, you _will_ take someone from me.” She pauses, a finger tapping her chin. “Would have took? Will have taken? Using the correct tense gets a little confusing at times.” A snort. “I guess it doesn't really matter though—from my perspective, it's basically all the same thing.”

There's a lone sheet of paper on the table, which she grabs before turning and making her way back toward him.

“Did you know that _you're_ the main reason I came back to Arcadia Bay? I just couldn't resist learning from _the_ Mark Jefferson. My hero. And, for a while, I thought that maybe _I_ could be one too.” She flips the paper for him to see, revealing it to be a flier for the “Everyday Hero” contest. “But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that I _suck_ at recognizing what a hero really is. A hero doesn't drug teenage girls for a picture, and a hero definitely doesn't let anyone die. Whether it's a single girl who has had enough pain to last a lifetime, or a town full of mostly innocent victims.”

“So—as much as I hate to admit it—you did teach me something. There aren't any heroes in this story. _You're_ definitely not one. And I _can't_ be one, because the universe decided to put me in a situation where someone will always die no matter what choice I make. But that doesn't mean I'm completely out of options. You still need to pay for what you did. To Rachel, to Kate, to me, to all those other girls, and to Chloe. I already have blood on my hands—I'm drowning in it. I've killed everyone in Arcadia Bay. So, really, what's one more death? Or ten. Or one hundred? Or one thousand? Or...”

Her lips peel back into a grin, feral and full of hunger.

“If the universe won't let me be a hero, maybe I'm supposed to be a villain.”

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The work is...difficult, at first. Messy, too. But it gets easier. Perfection of any craft is only a matter of determination and time, after all.

She has more than enough of both.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

It becomes near impossible to keep track of how long it's been. She used to wonder if her own time continued unabated during rewinds, worrying that one day she would be tying Jefferson up with hands that trembled with arthritis rather than rage. For a while she keeps track of the passing days, tallying them up in a cheap spiral notebook she'd bought at a local store. She stops bothering when half of the pages are filled to the brim with marks, with nary a sign that she has aged at all. Her hair never grows, and she finds that she only gets hungry if she spends longer than a day in the bunker. Leaving to go and eat becomes tedious, so she stops bothering and always rewinds before the day is through. The same rule applies to sleep, which she abandons as well. That discovery is the one she's most thankful for.

The nightmares can't haunt her while she's awake, after all.

As a result, she almost never leaves the bunker. Her day starts with Jefferson drugged and bound and ends when he's either completely broken or the life has left his eyes. Then she rewinds and does it all over again, only ever deviating from the pattern when it gets monotonous enough to require new methods and tools.

At some point she begins to identify the studio as _hers._ It disturbs her at first, but eventually it makes sense: she's spent more time there than he ever will, after all. Gradually that sentiment evolves until it not only becomes hers, but also becomes _home._

Sometimes—usually while she's waiting the three hours, seventeen minutes, and forty-two seconds it takes for Jefferson to shrug off most of the drug—she ruminates on the fact that this will be her past, present, and future until time either breaks or ceases to exist. Her home is a never-ending cycle of death and revenge.

Some days it fills her with exhilaration. On others, dread.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She kills him a thousand times, in a thousand different ways.

It's _still_ not enough.

And maybe it never will be. The thought is almost comforting, in a way. The need has become such a part of her that she almost can't remember life without it.

Is this what insanity feels like?

She asks him, once. Her timing isn't the greatest—by the time she thinks to ask his vocal chords are far too shredded from all the screaming—but verbal confirmation proves unnecessary. She stares into his eyes, looking beyond the pain and terror. Nesting there is something familiar, something that stares back just as unflinchingly. 

There's a reason why she hasn't stood in front of a mirror in a _long_ time.

She continues with her work, expression blank. But inside of her head, someone is screaming.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

She has no recollection of when her consciousness fled, but she definitely knows when it comes back.

Somehow or another, she ends up breaking into the Arcadia Bay lighthouse and making the climb to the top. She's naked from head to toe, and like most of the things she does during that fugue state she has no idea why.

So there she is, stripped down to skin on top of a lighthouse. Looking out over the town that she knows she will condemn to complete annihilation fills her with emotions that she doesn't want inside of her.

To her sanity deprived mind, the solution is simple. Get them _outside_ of her.

By screaming.

So she does. She screams and screeches at the top of her lungs, and at some point somebody breaks in with laughter. Only after a few moments she realizes that, no, no one else is here— _she's_ the one who's laughing.

“Max? Why the fuck are you up here screaming your lungs out? _Naked_?” A voice cuts through the laugh track playing in her head, but this time it's from an actual second party. She turns her head, dumbfound, because it isn't possible. She knows Chloe's schedule by heart. Memorized it so that she would never run into her by accident. The universe has either decided to throw her a curveball, or she's become so unstable that she's forgotten her cardinal rule.

_Chloe can never know._

She's not sure which prospect is more terrifying.

And Chloe...Chloe looks scared. Maybe for her, or maybe _of_ her. And just like that, her entire perspective shifts almost imperceptibly. Suddenly she can see everything again, almost as if there'd been something right in front of her eyes blocking her view until she'd craned her neck just enough to see around it. She's back in her skin, back in her mind, back to reality.

She flings her arm forward so quickly that the joint in her elbow feels like it might snap, and time rewinds so quickly that it shrieks.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

There needs to be an end. She knows that now.

Or, to be more precise, she'd always known. On some basic level, she knew that this couldn't go on forever—something would break in the end. She'd thought it would be time.

Not her.

But Max Caulfield is an artist, no matter the circumstances. Once she accepts the inevitability of the end, she begins to see _possibility_ in it. Jefferson himself once said that she was gifted at portraying the world as she saw it through her photos.

Why not let him see?

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“I have something I want to show you. It's _way_ overdue...well, not from your perspective, I guess. Anyway, it's my photo for the 'Everyday Hero' contest. It's really special—I put a lot of time and effort into it.”

She places a red binder in his lap.

“I know it's against the rules, but...maybe you could grade it now?”

Her tone is questioning, but the gun she places against his temple makes it clear that it's _not_ a request. There's no way she'd ever actually _use_ it—there would be no point—but of course he doesn't know that.

When he stills, she smiles and flips the binder open.

His eyes flicker down, no doubt noticing first the shape of a butterfly that stretches across two pages. She sees his momentary confusion, followed by the realization that the butterfly is a collage made up of smaller pictures. He squints as he focuses on one—

_Click_

He's starts retching—possibly even vomiting, which can't be pleasant given that the gag is still securely in place over his mouth—but all of her attention is on the picture coming out of her Polaroid. She pinches it deftly and gives it a couple waves, eyes drinking in the revealed photo.

She'd managed to capture it—the _perfect moment_. The instant that his brain had made sense of what was before him.

When she turns back to Jefferson, her smile is positively radiant.

“What do you think? I'm usually not very confident in my work, but I would definitely give myself an 'A' on this one.”

His head is turned to the side, face almost ghostly white and tears streaming down his face. The expression is nice, but...

“That's no good, Mr. Jefferson.” She says sternly. “You can't grade it fairly if you won't even look at it.” She grabs his head with both of her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“I can rewind time. I've told you that before, but I'm sure you've never believed me...I didn't believe it either, at first. I only accepted it when I had proof, and that's what I'm giving you now. We've been down here together for a _long_ time. You don't remember—never will—but _I_ do. _This_ is what we've been doing. This was the first time I've shown you this, and that makes it very special for me. That's why, this time, I want to tell you something that I'll never say again. But _first,_ you need to _look at my work_.”

Her hands are still holding his head still, but she can feel him trying to shake his head.

“If you do, I won't do anything in those pictures this time. I'll make it quick. Painless. If not...I'll get _creative_. Then I'll take a picture and rewind. Each time I have to rewind, I'll get more and more creative, and I'll show you _exactly_ what's coming.”

Seconds go by. She's almost ready to start making good on her threats when she feels the barest hint of his head tipping.

“Good.” She lets go of him, watching in satisfaction as he obediently looks back down at the binder. “No zoning out, either. I want you to see _everything_.”

Minutes go by as his eyes slowly trace over the page, going from picture to picture. At each new image, the life in his eyes seems to dim perceptibly. By the time he gets to the end, there's noting left in them.

“You stood in front of our class and told us that you could frame any one of us in a dark corner, that you could capture us in a moment of desperation. That any one of us could do that to you. Do you remember what you asked next?”

“ _Isn't that too easy? Too obvious?”_ She recites, fingers tightening along the handle of the gun.

When he looks up at her his eyes are dead, countenance resigned. For the first time she can actually remember since starting all if this, she feels satisfied. She doesn't take a picture—she's sure she'll remember this moment just fine without one.

“It was.”

For the last time, she raises the gun and shoots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile! Here's a good ole revenge fic, because hurting Chloe is the easiest way to bring out Mad Max.
> 
> I wrote ninety percent of this right after finishing episode five. It's been sitting on my laptop ever since, along with approximately six other unfinished chapters. I finally decided to finish it. Hopefully I can do the same with some of the others.


	14. Gift Wrapped

"Can I help you find something, miss?" The girl has been walking up and down isle after isle, frowning and looking lost. Normally he's not so eager to offer his help—quite the opposite, in fact—but she just so happens to be within hearing distance of the manager. Rumors of a new assistant manager position have been spreading through the grapevine, and he's gunning for it.

Everyone knows that assistant managers get paid more to do practically _nothing_.

Plus, she's pretty cute. A little more mousy than the girls he's usually interested in, but in a good way.

She turns to him, biting her lip. “Umm, yes...do you carry large ribbons? For...larger packages?”

Today really _is_ his lucky day. She's asked one of the only questions he's capable of answering.

“We most certainly do!” He nearly chirps, noticing how the manager briefly glances his way. “How—”

They are interrupted when a second girl appears seemingly out of nowhere. If the first girl borders his interest range, this one is smack dab in the middle of it.

Chicks with tattoos are hot, after all. Doubly so when they dye their hair an exotic color.

“ _Maaaaaax_ , what's taking so—oh.” She pauses when she spots them. “Hey.” She says, throwing a suspicious glance his way.

“Chloe, I _asked_ you not to come in! You'll ruin the surprise!”

Chloe rubs her arm and glances down toward the floor sheepishly.“You were taking a long time. I got worried.”

Max huffs, but her next words are gentle.“I'm _fine_. Now shoo. Back to the truck.” She reinforces the words with a wave of her hands, which causes Chloe to stick out her tongue and walk out of the store.

“I'm sorry” she says, turning her attention back to him “you were saying?”

He tears his gaze away from the store's exit, hoping she hadn't noticed his eyes follow her friend out.

“How long of a ribbon will you be needing?”

“Probably...maybe...thirty feet? To be safe.”

“I see. How large is the object you got for your friend?”

“Umm, five and a half feet.” She whispers, cheeks suddenly blazing. “And she's my girlfriend.”

Oh.

 _Ooooooh_.

He can't decide whether the revelation is terribly disappointing, or completely awesome. Well, at least he can still look good in front of his boss.

“That must be quite a present! I'm sure she'll love it.” For some reason her blush deepens, but he ignores it and presses on. “We have a wide variety of ribbon spools in various lengths and thicknesses, so I'm sure I can get you exactly what you're looking for. Please, follow me.”

He leads her to isle seven, where all of the store's stock of ribbon spools hang on the wall creating a rainbow menagerie. It'd been a pain in the ass to put them all up on Tuesday, but it's only thanks to that that he knows where they are.

“As you can see, we have ribbons of almost every color. We also carry strands with designs on them.”

She steps up to the wall, pulling down a spool of red ribbon and unreeling a short strand that she then holds up against her wrist.

“Hmm” she hums to herself “ruby won't pop as much on film...do you have any in rose. Or candy?”

“Uhhhh...” this line of questioning is far beyond him. As far as he can tell, they're all basically the same shade of red.

“Oh. Here it is.” She pulls down a second reel, placing the first back in its spot. Once again, she pulls out a short strand and holds it against her skin. The repeated action confuses him.

“...What, uh, what is the present?” He asks. Something, maybe a thought or an idea, is tickling the back of his brain.

“An otter.” She replies absentmindedly.

A five and a half foot stuffed (he assumes) otter? Not exactly the sort of gift he'd guess a punk girl like the one earlier would want...

“This color is _perfect_.” She continues, lips pulling back into a soft smile. “I wonder if it's going to be too wide though...”

“We have thinner ones.” He drops his cheerful facade—he'd thought that this would be a quick and easy sale with the added chance of a date. Now neither of these possibilities are panning out, and his already limited patience is wearing thin. Besides, the manager is long gone...probably back in the office playing solitaire on the computer or drawing up next week's schedule in such a way that ensures he won't have a weekend. Bastard.

She doesn't seem to notice his lack of enthusiasm, lost in her own thoughts.

“—silk too, so it shouldn't cause any skin irritation even if it rubs a bit...”

She pulls out a larger portion, holds it up against her breasts, looks down, and nods in approval.

And suddenly the thought in the back of his mind comes surging forth, refusing to be ignored. All of the little pieces fit together in a way he would normally never connect, but the mind of a teenage boy has some paths that are well traveled and this happens to be one of them. Two girls. Ribbon for wrapping a gift. A five foot and a half—a.k.a. human sized—gift. Skin irritation from a ribbon.

It's a fantasy come true. He can't _wait_ to tell the guys later tonight.

Unfortunately and as is usually the case, his mouth is quicker on the draw than his brain.

“ _Awesome_.”

She looks up, startled, and there's no possible way that he can keep the stupid grin off his face. Red explodes into her cheeks, and her arm snaps up in what he assumes is the prequel to a slap, but it'll be totally worth it—

XXXXXXXXXXXX

“—sure I can get you exactly what you're looking for. Please, follow me.”

He blinks, and suddenly she's just...gone. Vanished into thin air, like she was never there in the first place. He hears the bell above the exit door chime, and manages to poke his head around the corner just fast enough to catch a glimpse of her back before the door shuts behind her.

“Cody!” The manager barks. “What the hell did you say to that girl?! One moment I glance over and you're talking to her, and the next she's running out of here like her life depends on it! What did I tell you about losing one more customer?!”

His mouth opens and closes, words failing him.

“Save it.” The manager fumes. “You're on toilet duty. Now get back there and scrub—at the very least I know they can spend extended time in your company without walking out.” He turns and heads back toward the front of the store, getting in one last grumble before out of hearing range “Even if it's only because they're bolted to the floor...”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be done in time for Christmas last year! It's a little late.
> 
> Chloe's going to love unwrapping her present, don't you think?


	15. Thirteen Seconds

A sudden sting in her neck.

_One second._

She brings her hand up toward the pinprick, confused.

_Two seconds._

_Danger,_ her instincts scream.

_Three seconds._

She throws her hand out, tries to rewind.

_Six seconds._

Time keeps moving forward. She falls to the ground. Props herself up with a shaking arm.

_Seven seconds._

Her assailant walks past her.

_Ten seconds._

She reaches out again, toward Chloe. Desperate. Nothing.

_Eleven seconds._

She calls out. Terror. Panic.

_Twelve seconds._

Chloe turns.

_Thirteen seconds._

The gun is in Chloe’s hand. Loaded. Aimed. One more second is all she needs to shoot. A flash. Simultaneous bang. Chloe’s head rocks back, gun flying from her hand. Blood spatters.

_Thirteen seconds._

Chloe is dead.

_Thirteen seconds._

Seconds no longer matter. Time ceases to make sense. It slows, but not in the controlled way it usually does when she’s manipulating it. The next few moments stretch in incomprehensible ways, slowing to a crawl and speeding up in random intervals that make her thoughts spin. Her eyes are locked on Chloe as she falls, half drugged mind refusing to accept what has happened. Her arm betrays her and collapses, sending her to the ground on her side. Facing her fallen friend. Forced to watch as the pool of red seeps out into the dirt.

But then her attention is diverted when **he** steps into her field of vision, hovering over her. The light from her flashlight catches his face at a menacing angle, casting dark shadows over it. His face used to fill her with admiration. Now all she can feel is horror.

_Thirteen seconds_.

The amount of time it takes for a world to stop turning.

_Thirteen seconds._

The amount of time it takes for a life to end.

As darkness takes her, there's only one thing she's certain of. For however much longer she has left to live, those thirteen seconds will be on rewind in her mind. Over, and over, and over, and over, and...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and lacking depth. I know.
> 
> According to the time-stamp on the document, I last touched this on September 17th, 2016. To be honest, I'd completely forgotten about it, probably because I wasn't all that impressed with it myself...but here it is at last! Three down, three to go!


	16. True Colors

“So, uh...what do you think?”

To be completely honest, she's at a loss for words. Chloe must read _something_ in her shocked expression though, because she bites her bottom lip and breaks eye contact.

“I know it's sudden, but I've been wanting to do it ever since...” the rest goes unsaid, but Max knows. Just the allusion is enough to send a wave of anxiety through her, which she combats by breathing in and out deeply while focusing on Chloe's fingers as they nervously fiddle with a lock of her hair.

Her strawberry blonde hair.

“I was pissed off when I dyed it the first time, you know. At myself, you, my dad, David, Joy—” her voice hitches, but she swallows and continues “—mom...the whole world, really. I was suffering _so much_ , but it was like no one noticed. Or cared. Guess I thought I could force everyone to look my way.”

She looks utterly forlorn, and if there's one thing that can give Max the strength to break free from the memory of storms past, it's Chloe in need of comforting.

“Chloe...” she launches herself at the newly dyed blonde, arms encircling her neck and pulling her close.

“But I don't want to be angry anymore, Max. I don't want to be rebellious. I just...I want to _be_.” Chloe states softly into her ear. “I don't know how to yet, but...mom used to say that sometimes looking like you wanted on the outside could help you feel like you wanted on the inside, so...” she runs out of words, but that's okay. Max doesn't have any either. Chloe had always been the type to prefer physical assurance over soft words anyway. Like the night after they buried Bongo, when the two of them had laid in Chloe's far-too-small bed together hand in hand, staring at the ceiling in complete silence until they both fell asleep.

Max tightens her grip, burying her nose into the locks of hair behind Chloe's ear and doing her best to ignore the smell of ammonia from the dye. This position gives her an intimate introduction to Chloe's new—or old, depending how you looked at it—hair color. Having her vision nearly filled with the strawberry locks reminds her of the days when they were young and having sleepovers every other night. She'd wake up in the morning (always before Chloe, who had been a late riser even in her younger days) to find their limbs somehow tangled together more intricately than the Gordian Knot. Not wanting to wake her friend—and also knowing that, should she try, Chloe would just grumble and fall back asleep—she would inevitably just stare into the mess of blonde hair, sometimes with jealousy at its color and sometimes with amusement at the way it could seemingly defy gravity.

A part of her will miss the blue she's come to associate with Chloe...but another part of her is looking forward to waking up in a sea of blonde again.

“I think you look perfect.” She whispers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! Another one finished.


End file.
